


Swim Good

by Dekka



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Depression, Getting Together, M/M, Prescription drug use and impacts, Therapy, Trigger described in beginning notes, mental health, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 12:09:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16974348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dekka/pseuds/Dekka
Summary: Mo’s arm shoots out, holding Mitch down to his seat. “You’re not supposed to drink on your meds.”It’s laughable, really, that Mitch thought he could get away with keeping his breakdown on the down low when his teammates are practically glorified gossip girls.“Well, that news got around fast,” he jokes darkly.TW: depressive scenes described in detail with fluff dotted in to ease the ache.





	Swim Good

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Swim Good by Frank Ocean 
> 
> "I'm about to drive in the ocean, I'ma try to swim from something bigger than me."

Some days Mitch feels everything. 

There’s a pep in his step that he gets made fun of for and he finds himself being hustled under whatever veteran’s arm is closest. It’s the way they smile at him and call him “Mitchy” or “Spoon” that makes him love his life. He feeds off their attention and in turn, he leaves them with a smile, sometimes even leaves them lighter after a loss, or a fight, or a bad day. He loves it. Light seems to follow him around, even on the rainiest days. 

He’s so lucky and he realizes it. He loves his job, his friends, his family, and his team. 

If someone magically told him he could change something about his life, he wouldn’t. 

And then some days, Mitch doesnt feel anything at all. 

The sun could be beating down, birds could be singing, and he’d still find himself weighed down by something. It’s a heavy feeling he cant quite describe, like a weight has settled on his chest and shoulders. Day after day he tries to breathe through it, but if anything, that just makes it worse. 

He’s found that all that helps is closing the blinds, turning off his phone, and shutting out the world, and even then it still feels like he’s sick, like something’s wrong, like there’s something he should be doing, or fixing, or some part of his life he should be appreciating with this time, but- 

It’s those days, as he wracks his brain for some rhyme or reason, that he can barely leave his bed. 

Auston tells him he gets depressed too sometimes, but this feels bigger, scarier. 

“Yeah, man,” Mitch agrees anyway. There’s not much else he can do. 

***

To Auston’s credit, he brings it up a week later, when they’re driving back from practice. It’s a good day, so it doesnt feel necessary, but Auston plows through Mitch’s pleas to stop talking about it. 

“I don’t know Mitchy, but I’ve been thinking about it and maybe you should talk to Babs? This is the shit they’re always talking about, you know?” He looks uncomfortable, his hand tensing and releasing on the steering wheel in imitation of a nervous tick. And really, it’s good advice. But- not for Mitch. 

Auston side-eyes him, his glance not even worth a second’s time, but it’s enough for his sweeping eyes to catalog the reluctance on Mitch’s face. 

“Just think about it, man,” he says, overly casual, his eyes glued back on the road. 

And, “Yeah maybe,” Mitch relents. 

 

***

They go through losses and wins, and somehow, Mitch smiles through every game and every practice. 

It’s nearing the end of November and even though he’s tired, it feels different. Good, almost. Like the ache in his body is from cardio and the last ten checks he’s taken and not because he woke up with an unexplainable cloud over his head that doesnt know when to quit. 

They’re in the middle of a roadie, so he has dinner with the boys, calls his mom, and even makes it back to the hotel in time to catch Patty for a round of cards before curfew. 

It’s not even a good day, it’s a _great_ day. 

That same night he wakes up at dawn, a rock in his stomach and a darkness clouding his mind. 

There’s no explanation, no helpful rhyme or reason. It just is. And he knows that means at some point he’s started to accept it and that in itself is scary enough. 

He rolls over to avoid the blacked out window, but that forces him to watch the clock on the hotel nightstand between his and Auston’s bed blink an ungodly hour at him. 

By morning he’s slept maybe an extra three minutes. 

As he forces himself to his feet, he wonders when he stopped noticing the way this darkness made his chest ache and stomach turn viciously. 

“You good?”

Auston’s barely up himself, propped up on one elbow as he fiddles with his phone to turn off the alarms he set. 

A thought so vivid and ugly shoots through Mitch’s mind; a thought of hate, of spite, of jealously for the way Auston just wakes up and can be okay, like it’s nothing. Mitch wishes Auston felt like him. Even if just for a second, so he could know, so he could get it. 

He forces away the sick thought as fast as it came, burying his head in his hands. No one deserves this, least of all Auston. 

“Mitch?” 

He cant take the worried tone or the patience in Auston’s eyes, so he leaves him there unanswered, taking the bathroom first. 

The sight that greets him in the mirror is horrific. Pale blue eyes match his skin in a worrying way. He thinks if maybe he breathes, just once- just one good inhale- maybe what he’s feeling will shed itself from him as fast as it came on.

He tries. 

In, then out. 

Then again. 

Nothing happens; and maybe it’s because he cant catch his breath, or maybe it’s because the eyes staring back at him are cold with hatred for what his body is doing to him. It’s nothing new, but this time, between his body and his reflection, there’s no hint of faith left. 

He breathes again and the image in the mirror mimics him. There’s no human there, just function; inhale and exhale, in and out. 

It’s scary to see himself so vacant. 

At his back, Auston hovers, leaned up against the bathroom door with a carefully guarded look on his face.

Mitch wants to yell at him. He wants to be left alone. But he doesnt have the energy to be angry. 

They meet eyes for a second in the mirror, and that seems to at least snap Mitch back into motion. 

He knows there’s nothing he can do right now, so he splashes water over his face, scrubs a hand over his blood-shot eyes, and tries to will his reflection to change. 

“I’m going to get Paul,” Auston decides, and Mitch’s mouth opens on a protest but the words don’t come; he cant even argue. 

Somehow, nothing feels real.

Their trainer comes into the room only minutes later with a medical bag slung over his shoulder, as if any amount of tape or gauze could patch Mitch up right now. 

Still, Paul tries, rolling the hotel room’s desk chair right up to the lip of the bed, caging Mitch in where he sits perched on the edge, his shoulders slumped in defeat. 

“Can you talk to me about what’s been happening?” Paul asks. He has a way of speaking that makes you feel like he isn’t listening to you, but in a good way. Like he’s listening but not watching, not judging. He lets you come to him, lets you work out your words on your own before you’re set under spot lights and glaring eyes of the rest of the medical staff and coaches. 

His hands start by tracing down Mitch’s throat, checking for swollen glands or any sign of illness. 

He wont find anything. 

Mitch’s mouth opens again, stuck on words that never come. 

“He said it’s like being depressed, but worse, that it goes off and on,” Auston supplies. He’s hovering by his own bed, still in sweatpants and a teeshirt, his arms crossed defensively over his chest as if Mitch will be mad at him for sharing that. Something about his stance makes him look small even as he takes up the whole walk way between the bed and the dresser. 

“It was fine for a while,” Mitch objects, finally finding what’s left of his voice. 

Paul nods in acknowledgment, his hands still purposely busy, checking over the edges of a bruise Mitch got from last game. 

He’s still studying the purple edges of it, trying to appear focused, when he asks, “And how long has this been going on?”

Mitch gulps, trying to count days, and months, and years of this off and on feeling. 

Finally, Paul gives him his arm back. Mitch’s fingers tangle together nervously in his lap. “It just started getting bad this last year.” His voice is barely a whisper, but Paul nods anyway, his hand squeezing around Mitch’s knee before he turns to his bag, pulling out a binder. Before he opens it he turns to Auston, eying his pajamas critically. “I’d suggest you make your way down to breakfast. We’ll be right behind you.” 

Auston hesitates, looking to Mitch for reassurance, but ultimately nods when he gets nothing. He silently grabs his clothes and disappears into the bathroom with only one glance back at Mitch. When he does, his smile is apologetic, and Mitch cant match it. 

He feels like a ghost. 

***

It doesnt hit until the next day that his secret is out. 

His face burns red as he walks into the practice rink, Babcock’s eyes already honed in on him. 

He knows it’s coming before it happens, but still, he flinches as his coach’s hand wraps around his shoulder. 

“Mitch,” he greets. 

“Coach,” Mitch echoes and tries to give his most convincing smile. 

Babcock doesnt deter, leading Mitch towards his office. 

It’s an hour of encouragement. Babcock’s voice is sure and strong, his eyes locked on Mitch’s for the full sixty minutes. “We’re going to help you,” he promises. “You mean a lot to me and a lot to this team Mitchy. Being depressed doesnt change that. We’re going to help.” 

Mitch’s eyes sting and his breath catches in his throat, but Babcock is there, his hand gripped tight on Mitch’s shoulder, grounding him. 

He didn’t even know he needed to hear that until the words were filling his eyes with tears. 

***

The resulting meds from his depression-included breakdown are a disaster. 

The first drug they try him on makes him put on ten pounds in two weeks. The guys in the room try to keep it lighthearted, teasing him about finally being heavy enough to stop lying on his weigh-in sheets, but Mitch just feels fat, and bloated, and disgusting because of the crap he’s been craving. After eating so meticulously for the majority of his life, the side effects of cheat meal after cheat meal make him even more depressed. 

Drug two is worse. He doesnt get out of bed, misses two practices in a row, and forgets to eat. He loses the weight he gained, plus some, and the trainers have a melt down. 

Drug three makes him nauseous. He throws up on the ice mid-practice, not even caring who’s watching as he dizzily tries to hold himself up with a hand against the boards. 

Paul is at his side, trying to talk to him, trying to hand him a towel, but Mitch can’t hear over the ringing in his ears. 

“You’re okay, it’s alright,” are the first stream of words that come clearly after he’s forced to sit down on the ice and put his head between his knees. 

“We’ll change the meds, we’ll find one that works, don’t worry,” Paul promises, when Mitch is finally with it enough to skate his way off the ice, a player holding him up on each side. 

Drug number four makes him stop feeling. 

It’s a nice change. 

***

“How’re you really doing, Mitchy?” Mo is the poster child of concerned captain, his attention and calm demeanor not wavering even as Mitch frantically looks for a escape route from this conversation, but the sports bar they’re in is dead. 

Mitch curses out people with actual day jobs who cant go out for wings at two in the afternoon on a weekday. 

“I’m fine, Mom,” he jokes halfheartedly, when he realizes Mo isn’t going to let this go. 

His faux-captain doesnt look impressed and Mitch, he panics. “Want a beer? I think I’m going to get a beer-” 

Mo’s arm shoots out, holding Mitch down to his seat. “You’re not supposed to drink on your meds.” 

It’s laughable, really, that Mitch thought he could get away with keeping his breakdown on the down low when his teammates are practically glorified gossip girls. 

“Well, that news got around fast,” he jokes darkly. 

“We’re just looking out for you.” If Mo wasn’t so earnest, Mitch would probably be mad. 

“I know,” he sighs, letting any residual anger leave him, and somehow, they talk about it. He tells Mo everything, piece by piece, from start to finish. 

He doesnt even realize until he’s home that he feels lighter than he has in weeks. 

***

Auston starts staying over at his place a lot. At first, Mitch thinks it’s because he’s scared he’ll do something to himself, but as the good days start coming, he can see it’s because Auston’s lonely. 

“My place doesnt have any food, can I come over?” Auston asks as they’re heading out of the rink. 

Mitch’s eyes roll. “You didn’t have any food in your place last week either,” he chirps. He realizes it was the wrong thing to say a second too late, after Auston’s clammed up. 

“Hey,” he bumps their shoulders, “I was just messing around, man. Of course you can come over.” 

Auston smiles, but it doesnt fully reach his eyes. 

When he gets like this, Mitch has learned it’s best to let him be, at least until the words find a way to work themselves out. If Mitch pushes, Auston just shuts down and gets snappy, so he drives them in easy silence, just waiting. 

It only takes half the drive for Auston to find his voice. “My place just gets kind of sad, that’s all.” 

It’s then that Mitch remembers what Auston said to him the first time he brought up his own depressive episodes. “Matty, if you’re depressed too, trust me, it’s not something you have to go through alone.” 

Having this conversation where just yesterday they were belting out the lyrics to Drake’s new album feels wrong. 

“It’s not like you get,” Auston shrugs. He wont even look at Mitch, his eyes forcefully gazing at passing buildings. 

“That doesnt mean it’s not just as important to get treated,” Mitch counters. 

Auston just shrugs again, already shutting it down, seeming to be done with the topic. But even knowing that Auston will clam up further if he keeps talking about it, Mitch pushes on. 

“When I first started talking to Paul about everything, he said something that really stuck, man. He said, ‘if you’re arm is sprained, you do something about it, and if your head is a little off, well then you do something about that too.’” 

Auston snorts, shaking his head, “Paul, as eloquent as always.” 

Mitch shrugs. “Doesnt make it any less true.” 

***

Auston goes to Paul three weeks later, and while he’s in with him, Mitch sits in their player’s lounge searching for an apartment for him and Auston. It’s not a cure-all, but he thinks they’ll both be happier, together. 

He finds a couple two bedroom places he likes and thinks Auston will like too and calls to schedule viewings for the next weekend they’re home. Moving will be a big change, especially to a place with a roommate, but Mitch thinks it might just be what they both need. 

At least now Auston can stop stretching out his shirts. 

“Hey.” 

Speak of the devil. Auston’s only a couple steps away, hovering awkwardly with a painfully familiar looking packet clutched tightly in his wringing hands. Mitch knows from his own experience that it’s filled with tips and coping mechanisms and some minor drug research. “So, how’d it go?”

Auston shrugs and Mitch mentally prepares for a very quiet night. 

“Can we get out of here?” He asks, surprising Mitch with even that amount of talking. 

Mitch doesnt need any prompting. “Of course.” 

When they get back to his place, he puts on Auston’s favorite movie and orders takeout. “Come here,” he offers, when the movie starts. 

Auston doesnt hesitate, somehow seeming small as he curls into Mitch’s chest. 

“I don’t want to do that again,” he says, hours later while the credits are playing. Mitch honestly thought he fell asleep ages ago, but thinks he hides his surprise well. “It’s hard to talk about in person,” he acknowledges, “but I hated it too, at first. Now look at me.” He’s practically the poster-child for depressed athletes. He’s not even mad about it, either; him opening up about his own issues got a lot of the other guys to get help, too. 

Auston doesnt answer verbally, like Mitch expected, but still his arms squeeze tighter around Mitch’s waist, and that’s answer enough.

***

By summer they’re moved in to a new place. It doesnt fix Auston’s bouts of depression, but at least now there’s someone there with him to help him through it. 

Mitch is still submersed in his own therapy sessions and drugs, but he’s happier. 

For the first time ever, he thinks he might have a handle on his mental health. It’s amazing really, what your mindset can do to you. 

***

It’s a regular Tuesday night after a win when things change, but in a different way. The clock says it’s just past midnight, but Mitch sometimes doubts the time their kitchen appliances claim it to be. 

Auston is half buried in the fridge, trying to find his post-game shake, and Mitch is leaned against the counter, his nose in his phone. 

“Find it?” He asks absentmindedly. 

Auston groans in response, which normally means he’s out of chocolate protein flavoring and is left to deal with vanilla, and Mitch cant help but laugh and wince at the same time. “I might have drank the last pre-made chocolate one yesterday, I was honestly in such a rush, man, I can’t remember.”

He looks up from his phone just in time to see Auston’s head hang, the fridge door shutting with a playfully angry thud. “Did you just see my name on the bottle and ignore it?” Auston asks, pulling a dramatically disgusted face as he takes the first sip of his white shake. 

“I was saving you the calories,” Mitch defends, even though he honestly just grabbed the first protein-based thing he could find for breakfast the day before. 

“Yeah, sure,” Auston snorts, gathering his phone and his bag from the kitchen table.  
Their kitchen is big, but still, even while hefting his bag over his shoulder, Auston cuts around the island to pass in front of Mitch. “Night,” he says, and leans in and kisses him. 

Mitch’s breath catches in his throat, freezing with the rest of his brain, even as he automatically leans into the kiss. 

It’s just a peck and Auston is already two steps away, like he never even stopped moving, before he freezes, his back to Mitch. 

“OhmyGod,” he says. 

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Mitch echoes. 

“That- just-” Auston, when he finally turns around, is beat red. His bag slumps off his shoulder, falling dejectedly to the floor. 

“-was nice?” Mitch finishes for him, hoping he’s reading the situation right. 

Auston’s eyes shoot up to his, wide as a deer’s in headlights. He doesnt seem to be processing a thing until Mitch waves a hand in front of his face, starting to wonder if he’s okay. 

Like he’s been shocked, Auston clears his head with a little shake, his eyes filling with hope that Mitch knows is reflected right back in his own eyes. 

After a year of living in each other’s pockets, it doesnt surprise him that they’re fighting to find a way to grow even closer. 

And after that, it becomes a thing. Even better, _they_ become a thing. 

***

Some days, Mitch feels everything. 

He cries, he hurts, he laughs, and he even yells, but that doesnt stop him from moving forward with treatment. 

And some days, he doesnt feel anything at all. But that’s okay, too. 

Slowly, when good days start getting more frequent, he decides to comes off meds, cutting down doses one day at a time. Even with ups and downs, looking back he finds even his bad days feel better, knowing he has team of not only friends, but medical professionals at his back ready to dig him out of his own head. 

It’s different, after so many years of battling alone, but it’s a good different. 

On bad days he only has to look so far as Auston, who’s still being treated himself, to see the impact his own honesty about his mental health has had on the people around him. 

After everything, and as crazy as it sounds, he’s something he thought he would never be: happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic meant a lot to me so I hope you guys like it <3 
> 
> Comments feed the writer :) 
> 
> (P.s. I promise I'm working on my other fics, too)


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